


The Lion Hunt

by Churchwarden



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churchwarden/pseuds/Churchwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Holmes returns after the events at Reichenbach Falls three months later, Watson can't quite keep himself in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Based exclusively off of the Russian series, and specifically the episode, [The Hunt for the Tiger](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRe3Ea3kOSI), which is the Russian adaptation of The Empty House -- this is intended as a piece to go with the episode, to fill in the little parts we figure happened anyway. Thoroughly and beyond satisfactorily beta read by [](http://curiousfunk.livejournal.com/profile)[**curiousfunk**](http://curiousfunk.livejournal.com/), the smoky apple of my eye. Or rather the creepy deer's foot in my pipe. ♥ The sequel can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/98545).

The thrill of Holmes' return still thrummed inside of me. He had been dead and gone for so long, and yet during his absence I had been utterly consumed with the need to keep his memory in my life. It was difficult enough living at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson and myself refusing until only very recently to even open the door to his quarters, much less take care of his belongings. And yet, after a humiliating defeat on a variety of levels, I resigned myself to my chair – formerly Holmes's chair – to sulk properly. When the old man and his books had appeared, I was so overwhelmed with frustration at myself that I failed to even suspect him, despite the particularly unusual circumstances of his being there.

In my moments of defeat those days, I often settled down and thought of him. Of course, my thoughts in a place like that (my chair – his chair) stayed chaste. I thought, _What would he do? How can I free myself from this situation? What am I missing? How would he put everything together?_ The most important question was a matter of how I was going to save myself, but my mind was clouded with self deprecation and sorrow, as what usually happened when Holmes came to mind. Holmes and that infernal violin plucking, Holmes and his nasal conclusions, Holmes and that pipe. Holmes and his mouth, Holmes and his devious eyes, Holmes and his hands, so often leather-clad in gloves.

It had been so long, and yet still I found myself to be affected by him, and badly enough to not notice the old man and his books after I had wiped at my eyes and sent him away, and just to focus on Mrs. Hudson, who had come in to give me my coffee, which I had not really wanted, but Mrs. Hudson could be nothing other than her wonderful self when I found myself slumping into a state of serious mourning. No, I had not wanted the coffee, but I would accept it all the same, for all I desired was to come up with a plan, and, with a final dab at my eyes, I turned to see him there.

"Hello, Watson. Watson, my friend." And at that very moment, the desire for him to live was overthrown by the fact that I had just seen a ghost, and I fell back as straight as a board. Holmes informed me later that he was sure he had never seen my eyes look larger – or bluer, though I flush to think of it now – and that directly afterwards, Mrs. Hudson had fallen in a faint as well.

I came to with smelling salts and a rag on my face. My mind was clouded again, and the sound of his commanding voice telling me to get up. Truth be told, I did not care what he had to say for the first moments. I gaped at him, saw his mouth moving, and stopped myself before I lunged at him. Instead I blew my nose, stood up and slowly moved towards him, touching him. "You're here."

"Yes, Watson," he said, his scratchy voice soothingly familiar to me.

My head fell to his shoulder as I felt my knees buckle. "You're real. Holmes." Only one arm came out, embracing him hard around the back; it was my bad arm, so I wasn't quite able to give him the squeeze that I had originally intended. Mrs. Hudson stood at his other side, weeping, and if she had not stood there I surely would have given him a hug to raise eyebrows. Or worse. That was what I'd thought of more often than not: his mouth.

Suddenly I looked up and saw the liquid pupils of Holmes's eyes shrink and well up, and he pushed past the both of us, wanting to get his space. Each of us were dabbing at our eyes. It was clear that none of us wanted to be reserved in this moment, and though I adore Mrs. Hudson and find her to be the thread that keeps Holmes and I seamlessly stitched together, I surely wished she would have disappeared. If only for a few moments, so that I could rush up to him to… Well. I wasn't entirely sure. Did I want to yell at him? Fight him? Hug him? Simply smile at him?

We talked about the case. In the midst of our emotions, Mrs. Hudson left us to prepare dinner. Holmes spoke at me in specific orders, but I could barely hear him. The excitement of having him there was so distracting. His words were like music. My heart was pounding so loudly that all I could hear were his steps to go out and have leisure time until he met with me.

"And don't dress as Padre this time. The soutane doesn't suit you," he said, the serious tone of voice changed into one of teasing, and I suddenly felt myself flushing, tugging at my lapel to remove any evidence of the disguise that had, for all intents and purposes, failed. If even a friend at a club could pick me out…

"Holmes," I said, and reached forward. My hand only landed on his knee. "I cannot tell you enough, that—"

"No, no, Watson," he replied quickly, his hand coming out to grab mine. The grasp was tender, but firm, and he picked up my hand. "We will talk after this case has been settled."

"But I haven't seen you in so long, Holmes," I gasped, not sure I wanted to lose sight of him ever again, much less for the next several hours. "Can you promise me that you will be at Cavendish at seven?"

"My dear friend," Holmes said, and his smile was small and genuine. I can distinctly remember choking on an emotion in that moment. "When have I ever missed an appointment?" Then, as my mouth opened to inform him he'd been _supposed_ to meet me at the Falls after the fight, his smile turned into a smirk and he squeezed the top of my hand. "Aside from that one, old boy."

I found myself shaking out a laugh, and then withdrew my hand. "I'll see you tonight, Holmes," said I, and went to get my coat.

* * *

"Baker Street!" I said, amusement heavy in my voice. My day of leisure had gone strangely well. Despite my mind's constant wandering at the anticipation of what was to happen, the simple knowledge that Holmes would be there for me at seven that very evening was a constant reassurance. Admittedly, when he arrived in another disguise, I had somehow not recognized him. Just a hat, glasses, and a scarf! I had had no chance while he was in that damned guise of the old man. Now we stood in the empty house across from 221B, and I felt just as clueless as ever at the ends of the cases we shared, but overwhelmed with premature success.

Holmes was too good to let this one go awry, I was sure.

"I have to leave you for a second," Holmes said, his fingers sheathed in their leather gloves brushing my arm. "I must check the front door." He turned and was gone, and yet no feeling of dread overcame me. I felt confident, pleased, and certainly free of the charges that were going to be laid against me by Lestrade. I was filled with inspiration, and pulled out my small pocketbook, scribbling down the events of the day as quickly as I could, when something not quite right in the opposite window caught my eye.

Holmes, who had been with me mere moments before, was settled in a chair – my chair, I mused – in his dressing gown and reading the paper. I felt my lips twitch. The artful devil. His footsteps came up behind me.

"Ingenious, isn't it?" he said smugly, and tugged his scarf down. I turned to look at him, and felt years of longing boiling up in me, threatening to spill over.

"What is it?" I asked, breathless, my eyes on his exposed lips.

"A work of art," Holmes began, and as he spoke of the artist and its place, I couldn't hear him. I stepped closer, and reached up with timid slowness as I pulled the large hat off of his head so that I could see him, Sherlock Holmes, without the disguise. He seemed to follow, and pulled off his own glasses. The smile that he rewarded me with made my stomach flip over, and I felt faint again, though for completely different reasons. He was _seducing_ me as I stood in front of him.

"What for?" My voice still wasn't able to catch up with myself.

"So they would think I'm at home. Whereas I'm here," he replied. _With you_, he left off.

And yet—they? "…who?"

"Have you forgotten they're watching the house?" His voice was warm, as if he knew that his seduction of me required this sort of re-explanation.

"Who?" I was quickly losing my ability to think, his hat still in my hand, his body close to mine, his silver eyes on me as if they could cut through my clothing.

"A charming bunch whose leader's body is resting at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls."

The words were like a password, and I came back to the present.

"Look!" he told me, and I turned slowly back to the window. I felt my mouth pulled in all sorts of directions; was this situation humorous? Ingenious? Ridiculous? Dangerous? The faux Holmes was slowly moving, no doubt by Mrs. Hudson as some form of puppetry.

"He's alive," I stated blandly, the irony of the entire situation a little lost on me.

"Naturally," came his smug reply, and I seemed to be stuck staring at that wax figure in my chair when I heard him gasp, "Watson!"

Suddenly Holmes was all around me, his long-fingered hand wrapping around my mouth and face as he dragged me behind a dusty old dressing screen. For a moment I heard footsteps, but then all there was… Was Holmes himself.

The leather was smooth and warm and smelled clean, like the rest of him, other than the constant scent of tobacco that clung to his body no matter how frequently he scrubbed at himself. His hand slowly pulled down away from my mouth and I turned to him. The footsteps grew closer, and both of my hands landed squarely on his shoulders.

It is charming to me when I think on his expression of surprise as I pulled him to me and kissed him for all I was worth. My fingers slid up, cupping his neck from both sides, and though there was clearly someone in the room now, I could not stop.

For a split second, Holmes seemed to be as powerless as I; we held our breath and kissed, pressing so close that a knife couldn't have come between us. With finesse, he pulled back, his hand coming back up to my mouth, and I felt myself kissing his fingertips, needing them just as much as any part of him as he hissed, "Wat…"

Holmes moved me aside and carefully peeked out from the side of the screen. I still had his hand, and held it to my lips, kissing his knuckles even as my eyes followed his gaze. Colonel Moran was there, loading the peculiar gun and intending to shoot the wax figure. Not that I cared in that moment. Holmes's taste still lingered on my lips, even as I had his hand at my mouth. His burning eyes turned to mine and he removed his hand from my grasp. I couldn't quite decipher the look he gave me, and I mouthed, 'What?'

He almost gave me an almost furious look, though I knew that was it preposterous. 'Later,' came his silent reply, and I felt my stomach tighten up at the prospect.

He wanted to continue this, did he?

What happened soon after happened so quickly that the kiss behind the screen still held me captive. Holmes was on the floor, struggling with Moran, and I stepped out, choking out, "Holmes, do you need help?"

"That would be appreciated!" came the grunted reply, and so I simply pistol whipped Moran into unconsciousness.

The handling of the case took much too long. Lestrade was there, lingering aimlessly for entirely too long. Even when it had just been Holmes and myself left behind, he returned to apologize and chat and get the air gun (ingenious!) and take up valuable 'later' time for me, though to my pleasure, Holmes humiliated Lestrade for his utter lack of knowledge regarding the case before sauntering off and calling for me to follow.

It was agony to know that I would have to sit through dinner and discussion with Mrs. Hudson present before I was going to find out what 'later' meant for Sherlock Holmes. Luckily, I had the distinct feeling that if it wasn't what I wanted, I wouldn't have trouble getting what I wanted out of 'later' either. I thought of his closeness, his scent, his taste, his leather gloves, his quiet desperation.

"Well, my dear fellow?"

"Hm?" I glanced up, rather distractedly chewing on my cigar.

"What are you thinking of? You haven't heard a word I've said, have you."

"Later," I replied dismissively, and felt myself smirking around my cigar as he turned to me with his eyebrows slowly lifting. "I'll tell you after my smoke."

"I daresay I could deduce it on my own," Holmes teased.

I pulled the cigar out, resting it between my fingers. "What would be the fun in that, old boy?" I stood up, then, and walked past him, fingers touching his shoulders chastely. And though he may have been the world's greatest and only private consulting detective, even he was not able to conceal his footsteps as he chased me.


End file.
